


Whiskey and Smokes

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Death, Funeral, Gen, Grieving, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Howling Commandos held a funeral for Bucky. Steve fulfilled some promises he hoped he'd never have to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey and Smokes

**Author's Note:**

> Based off one of my tumblr text posts (you can find me at bucksterbarnes) which basically asked 'Did the Howling Commandos have a funeral for Bucky' amongst other things. Someone wanted me to write a fic to accompany it, so here it is!!

The only time Steve Rogers seriously considers giving up is when Bucky falls. 

He can’t even think that Bucky ‘died’ – just that he fell. Just that Steve _let him_. He wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t strong enough – so what was the point of it all? What was the point of the pain, and the rescue, if Bucky was just going to be snatched away from him? 

Steve is stronger, now. But he wasn’t strong enough to save the person he loved most, so it doesn’t matter. 

There’s more waiting than people think: when the history books, and the historians, and the museum exhibits talk about the time between the train, and the plane, they speak as if it was all action; all fighting, and justice, and avenging Sergeant Barnes. The truth is, there was a lot of time: solitude, and silence, and words left unsaid rattling around inside Steve’s head. 

He thought he’d have all the time in the world to be with Bucky, after he rescued him: they’d win the war together, and they’d go back home together, and they’d grow old together and – most importantly – die together, so they wouldn’t have to experience this hideous, unbearable loss. They’d have all the time in the world, after the war: after their duty was fulfilled, and they’d fought all they could, they’d return to Brooklyn and finish that period of youth that had been snatched away from them so far. 

They’d be home soon: home, and together, perhaps by Christmas. It’s a dream – a horrible dream, that’s gone sour, now. Where once that dream used to comfort Steve, filling his imagination with Christmas lights and scratchy jumpers and newspaper-wrapped gifts, every time Bucky so much as smiled at him . . . Now, it taunts him: visions of holidays they’ll never have, and gifts they’ll never give, and midnight kisses they’ll never share. It’s too late, now: the recollections of previous years are bittersweet, and the thoughts of years to come are ethereal, and fanciful, and folly. He can’t think of happy things without it hurting, anymore, because he cannot share them. 

_Til the end of the line_ – it was supposed to be _their_ line, not just Bucky’s. Bucky didn’t keep his end of the deal. Steve doesn’t blame him, though – he blames himself. And he considers giving up. 

The waiting provides him with the opportunity to do one thing, at least: something he promised he’d do for Bucky, one time, when he was drunk and pawing at Steve’s jacket, which hid his uniform, given that they weren’t officially on duty. 

Steve can picture his eyes, as he stares at the scratched, grey stone in front of him: the inky darkness that surrounds him reminds him of Bucky’s eyes, pupils blown wide with intoxication, as he asked for something Steve hoped he’d never have to give him. 

“A bundle of smokes – good ones, not – not any old-” He’d made a vague hand gesture then, which vaguely translated to, _the shit they give us as rations_. “No – you gotta find the best you can. And whiskey – Irish . . . Remember when we drank some of your dad’s old whiskey, Stevie? . . . Your Mom was keeping it special, but then she . . .” He’d blinked at that point, biting his lip, realising he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. He’d reached up, and cupped Steve’s face in one hand, murmuring, “I’m sorry . . . Irish whiskey,” 

Steve didn’t need to ask what for – he’d scoffed, and waved the requests away, telling Bucky it wouldn’t be necessary. But Bucky had brought his other hand to Steve’s face, gently tilting it down, so Steve was forced to look into his round, shining eyes.  
“I mean it, Stevie – this is my choice,” 

He hadn’t just meant the collection of things he wanted to be buried with: he’d meant it was his choice to go with Steve; to fight with him; to die for him, if necessary. And he’d meant it, just like he said: he seemed scared as hell to die, sure – but he made his decision, and he stuck with it, til the end. 

It’s not just the icy mud that makes Steve’s bones ache with cold, at the memory: it’s the freezing fear in Bucky’s eyes, pleading for Steve to save him one last time – _just one more time, to make up for all the hundreds of times he did the same for you, before this goddamn war_ – and the sheer terror when the sharp metal bent and broke, sending him falling to his-

. . . Bucky fell. He’s gone. Steve won’t even think the _word_ , despite the fact he’s been kneeling at Bucky’s grave all day. 

It’s not a real grave: not really. Bucky never got a casket, because they never found a body: they couldn’t afford to go looking, and with the train moving so fast, Steve doesn’t even know if he could accurately tell them where to look. He hates himself for that: if he’d just paid attention, he could give Bucky the burial he deserves, rather than his body freezing over, mangled, and bleeding, and broken – creatures in the night might take it – wolves, and bears, and – and enemy soldiers – the thought of them touching his body, _Bucky’s body_ \- 

Steve wretches, before trying to calm himself down from the lurch of sadness, and sickness, that overcomes him at that thought. He blocks it out, his head in his gloved hands, pulling slightly at his own hair in despair. _They won’t find him. No one will. He’s gone. They can’t hurt him anymore . . . Neither can you._

They had a funeral, earlier: the Howling Commandos all said a few words about Sarge, pretending like it wasn’t Steve’s fault that he was gone. Steve tries not to blame himself too much – Bucky wouldn’t want that – but he can’t help but feel he let him down. Choosing him for the squad – taking the risk of going on the mission – _not grabbing his hand quick enough._

They tell him he wasn’t to blame, but they weren’t there. 

Steve got Bucky his whiskey, and his smokes: Agent Carter pulled some strings for him, on the smokes front; Dum-Dum had some liquor he was saving for a special occasion, and he offered it up without question when it came down to it, knowing from overhearing Bucky and Steve’s conversation what Sarge wanted to be buried with. If he saw Bucky holding Steve’s face, stroking his sharp cheeks with weathered thumbs, and pressing a gentle apologetic kiss to his lips, then he doesn’t mention it. 

None of them say anything, either, when they’ve all said what they need to, and begin to leave – they don’t even flinch, when Steve says, “Go ahead – I’ll catch up later,” 

He doesn’t even muster a sad smile. They knows it’s bad, when he can’t display any optimism at all. They all liked Barnes, having fought with him for years – from the trenches to the train – but they know Cap grew up with him, and was friends with him since childhood. Their friendship – or whatever – wasn’t really their business, but they know it ran deep. So it cut deep when Sarge died, too. 

Steve doesn’t realise it’s gone dark – he doesn’t realise he’s speaking aloud, either, to the pile of fresh-churned dirt where Morita and Jones dug a hole. They stuffed the tin with the smokes and whiskey down the hole, and covered it back up; smothered it, and covered it with a stone that Falsworth engraved with great care. _Sergeant James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. 32557083._

It’s a worse grave than some dogs get, but it’s all they can muster. It gives the others closure – and it gives Steve something to focus his grieving on, even if he can’t accept the loss yet. 

Steve knows Bucky will have an official memorial, one day: Colonel Philips promised him as much, in clipped phrases, earlier. The Colonel deals with fallen soldiers every day, but he’s never had to deal with a grieving Captain America before; Barnes was one of his finest, and it’s a damn shame to lose him, even without considering the impact on the other Howling Commandos, and Steve. 

But Steve thinks Bucky would prefer something down-to-earth. Sure, he’d say something like _make sure there’s girls cryin’ at my memorial every day, Stevie – I wanna know that they miss me_ , but deep down – under the cockiness, and the carefully-constructed façade that only Steve can really see through – he knows he’d want Steve to do whatever he felt was right. Something to help Steve feel better (as if that were possible). 

“Can’t believe you’re gone,” He mumbles, hearing himself but not really registering that he’s talking to inanimate objects: _things, just things_. They’ll never add up to the sum of what Bucky was to Steve. Nothing will. 

“. . . Can’t believe you left me alone, you big jerk,” He says, laughing a little hysterically at the end of the sentence, and wiping away a piping-hot tear from his cheek. He lets them fall, for the main part, but it makes him cringe to say something so poignant out loud – wiping tears from skin Bucky’s lips previously kissed gives him a distraction. A grim one, but . . . It’s a break from reality, for just a second. Something practical, in amongst all the chaotic feelings, and raw emotions. 

He was better at expressing them than Bucky was – but now, he wished he’d learned how to suppress them, and carry on being strong, from Bucky – like he did, when he had to leave for war; like he did, when he’d been experimented on for weeks, and experienced hell on Earth at the hands of Hydra. 

“At least you’ll never have to go through that again,” Steve comments miserably, adjusting his gloves and letting out a harsh sigh; catching his breath, and evening his breathing out, fearing an asthma attack will be forthcoming, though he doesn’t have them, anymore. Truth be told, he’d give up every single one of his enhancements – and his fame, and his rank, and all his possessions – just for one more day with Bucky. 

“. . . Still can’t believe you’re gone – don’t think I can go back to Brooklyn without you, Buck,” He confides in the stone. “It’d be wrong – the bed would be too big – I know it was always too small for the two of us, but just me alone, even now – even now, it’d be . . . It wouldn’t be right,” 

He sniffs, and thinks, _maybe DC. Maybe I can move to DC. Once all of Hydra are killed or captured._

. . . He pauses, for a moment, collecting his thoughts: he consciously reviews them, and notes the change from his old way of thinking – _no, I don’t want to kill Nazis, I just don’t like bullies_ – upon losing Bucky, it changed like a switch being thrown. _I’m not going to stop until all of Hydra are killed, or captured._

“They’re going to pay for what they did, Buck - just like you made those bullies who hurt me pay for it,” He tells the stone in a low voice. “I know it was mainly my fault, and my decisions that got you here – or wherever you are . . . But I’ll get justice. For them, and for you,” He promises, clenching his fists; his gloves tightening around his fingers as he does so. 

He’s aware that he’s cold: Agent Carter came out earlier, wordlessly draping a coat around his shoulders, as he knelt in the mud in front of the churned dirt, and the stone. She didn’t say anything – she knows better than to counsel Steve, now, knowing that he won’t even hear her words – but she will talk him around, eventually. Until then, she just makes sure he remains healthy; lets him know, with the gesture that provides at least a little warmth and comfort for him, that she’s there, and she cares. He hasn’t been left completely alone by this loss – even if it feels like it. And she won’t let him freeze, no matter what. 

But now, as well as the coat she brought him, the intensity with which he wants to do something to atone for what happened to Bucky heats him; fuels him, and drives him to go on. 

He almost gives up. But then, during the waiting, and the down-time, and the grieving, he finds a way to channel the sick, shocking guilt and desolation that he feels into the fight for freedom, and justice. 

All the love he felt for Bucky has been converted into anger, and the need to fight – he can’t satisfy one, so he’ll indulge the other. Even if it kills him. 

-

32557083\. It’s a number that resonates like the ringing of cut-crystal glass in his head, but he can’t say why. 

The dirt is a colour he knows: damp and grown over with grass, but in a small heap, like someone didn’t even it out under the stone with the numbers. 

The earth is a consistency he knows; one that’s filled his mouth upon a crash-landing. The dull, bitter sensation of its taste was masked by the sharp, heavy taste of snow; drowned out by complete and utter agony burning through his body. Not their body. His. 

The tin is one he knows: an American army-issue medical kit from decades gone by, emptied out in a hurry; paint scratched, and metal dented, by the weight of the dirt and the years. It belongs in a museum, like the rest of him does – like the rest of him already is, aside from the body he inhabits. 

The cigarettes are ones he knows: ruined and rotted away, but with a fancy name on the packet, preserved by the tin, that he recognises; he knows they were good, at the time. He knows someone kept a promise, in order for them to be here. 

The whiskey is a drink that he knows. It reminds him of a mother – not his own – and death – not his own – and grieving, and hazy confessions of love. To who, he doesn’t know. But he suspects. 

_Bucky_. It’s a name he knows – one he can put a face to, even if that face is dead. James Buchanan Barnes: a man who’s alive, but doesn’t really exist anymore. 

_A name I know_ , he thinks to himself, as he collects the tin – he has enough memorials already. He’s destroyed as many as he can find, so he’ll leave the stone. But the whiskey is something he might need. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not his name. But Bucky might be, one day.


End file.
